The Girl in the Bar
by ladylibre
Summary: You've seen me, read about me, maybe even judged me a little. But I think it's time you actually met me.


**Okay, so… this little one-shot has been brewing in my mind for a long time. It's quite different than what I usually write, but I'm proud of it nonetheless.**

**Special thanks to my dude for encouraging me to actually write it the way I wanted to… and to my partner-in-crime, BitterHarpy, for telling that I absolutely should share it on my profile.**

**Hope you enjoy it!**

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**The Girl in the Bar**

Hey. It's me.

The girl in the bar.

Drawing a blank? That's okay. I'm used to it.

Quiet as it's kept, I prefer it.

See, people always assume that I'm pathetic, a lost cause or one to be pitied. They think that because I'm not the one who gets the guy in the end that something must be wrong with me.

How pedestrian.

Remember me yet? No? Like I said, that's okay. See, I don't need you to remember me. I don't need you to be nice or complimentary or even pretend you're interested in anything more than what we both know you came here for.

And let's be clear: I know what you came here for and why.

You came here because Mommy didn't love you or Daddy's disappointed in you or you just can't seem to find that sweet, down-to-earth girl your heart secretly desires.

You came here because boys will be boys or you had a hard day or you don't really know how to love because of your terrible childhood or that thing happened that you never talk about.

But really, if we can cut through the bullshit, you came here because you wanted to fuck and needed to find someone willing to fuck you.

And that's where I come in.

Because here's the thing you don't know about me: I came here to fuck too.

Yeah, me and my blonde hair and short skirt and big tits knew exactly what we were doing when we tipped in here on four-inch heels, and we thank you very much for noticing.

Because to paraphrase another buxom blonde, it takes some effort to look this good.

And we know we do. Look this good, that is.

So we sit at the bar with our long legs crossed, ignoring every man who tries to make a play because we know what we're waiting for, and he hasn't arrived yet.

_You _ haven't arrived yet.

You're probably at home, nursing some personal pain and telling your best friends you don't wanna go out tonight. Or maybe you're at work, crushing the latest numbers in your fist, pissed beyond all reason that such a mistake could have happened on your watch.

Whenever you are now, you won't be there long. Because something inside you demands to be seen tonight, to be touched and stroked and tasted tonight... then forgotten the next morning when you wake up and hate yourself—and me—for what we've done.

It's a dirty job, but I'm all too happy to do it.

So when you finally arrive, it is with little fanfare and no real plan. You grab a beer… then two… then three… and sit at the table with two or three of your very best friends. They laugh and talk shit, and you chuckle at times, but your heart's not really in it.

Then one of them gets a load of me.

The one with the weakest game usually volunteers to play. He'll saunter over, flash his brightest smile, then offer to buy me a drink. I turn him down because he's not the one I want, but he usually persists in his futility. And that's when you come in, laying a hand on his shoulder and asking him to lay off. You apologize for his rudeness, I thank you for coming to my rescue, and you offer to buy my next drink. I tell you I'd much rather have your company than your money, and that makes you smile. You sit, we chat, then I lay my hand on your leg. You play dumb, acting as if you had no idea this was coming, and I let you, knowing you have to resent me a little before giving in to what you want.

To what we both want.

Other times, you're there first and I come in, noticing you right away. I have no time to play tonight, so I walk right up to you, tell you my name is Jessica or Tanya… sometimes Rosalie but never Bella… and ask you what time you're taking me home. You blow me off, say that's not why you're here, but I see the interest flicker in your eye. No man can really resist all of this up close, let alone when I'm practically offering myself to him on a silver platter.

But like I said, there's something in you that has to hate me before you can have me, and if that's your twist, hey, do you. But I persist and you resist, and we dance and dance and dance. I'm smiling at you, giving you a sneak peek of the goods, and you're leaning back but letting me, acting as if this is all my idea.

And it is, by the way. This is totally my idea, my idea of a damn good time, and I am determined to have one with you tonight. So when you give me that look… that look I've been waiting for… I know I've got you. I've got you right where I want you, and I'm going to have you.

I also know you're gonna call me all kinds of names in your mind and think I'm less of a woman because I let you buy me three drinks, feel me up in the Uber, then bend me over your marble kitchen counter without even knowing my last name. You'll fuck me hard and ruthless, grab my hair and slap my ass, but you won't kiss me, thinking you're sending me some message or hurting my feelings or some shit like that. What the fuck do I care about a kiss when you're balls-deep inside me, hitting my spot?

(Not once but twice in four hours?)

Sometimes you get to a point where you don't even want to finish. You pull out and push me away, running a hand through your crazy hair before telling me to get the fuck out of your house or your best friend's loft or wherever the fuck we are. I gape at you in shock, wondering aloud what I did to make you treat me this way, maybe even call you an asshole as I stuff my thong in my purse and slam the door behind me. You'll deflect and get all evasive with your bros the next day when they ask about "the hot blonde who was all over you last night," maybe even tell them I was a whore like all the rest, as if calling me a whore somehow makes you less of one.

But like I said, do you. Call me whatever you want. Because I don't care what you think of me. I don't care what you tell your friends, if you remember my name, or if you even enjoyed it.

(Though the way you grunted and groaned and gripped my hips speaks for itself.)

I don't care because I wasn't looking for a husband, a boyfriend, or even a stud to take to my sister's wedding in three months.

I was looking for a great time with a fuckhot guy, and you gave that to me, did that for me.

And you know what's funny? The next time we meet, you'll do it again.

Because you're you—moody, broody, beautiful you—and I'm me.

The girl in the bar.

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**And that's all she has to say. Thanks for reading! xo**


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